faster and prepared for the
threatened tackle. Harwell hearts sank, for the crimson-clad runner
appeared to waver, to be slowing down. Suddenly, when only his own
length separated him from his prey, the Yates full-back left the ground
and, like a swimmer diving into the sea, dove for the hesitating runner.

There was but one thing that day more beautiful to see than that
fearless attempt to tackle; and that one thing was the leap high into
the air that the Harwell left half made just in the nick of time,
clearing the tackler, barely avoiding a fall, and again running free
with the ball still safe!

The Yates player quickly recovered and took up the chase, and the
momentary pause had served to bring the foremost of the other pursuers
almost to Joel's heels. And now began a contest that will ever live in
the memories of those who witnessed it.

Panting, weary, his legs aching at every bound, his throat parching with
the hot breath, Joel struggled on. Joy had given place to fear and
desperation. Time and again he choked down the over-ready sobs. Behind
him sounded the thud of relentless feet. He dared not look back lest he
stumble. Every second he expected to feel the clutch of the enemy. Every
second he thought that _now_ he must give up. But recollection of that
fumble crushed down each time the inclination to yield, and one after
another the nearly obliterated lines passed under foot. He gave up
trying to breathe; it was too hard. His head was swimming and his lungs
seemed bursting.

Then his wandering faculties rushed back at a bound as he felt a touch,
just the lightest fingering, on his shoulder, and gathering all his
remaining strength he increased his pace for a few steps, and the hand
was gone. And the ten-yard line passed, slowly, reluctantly.

"One more," he thought, "one more!"

The great stands were hoarse with shouting; for here ended the game. The
figures on the score-board had changed since the last play, and now
relentlessly proclaimed one minute left!

Nearer and nearer crept the five-yard line, nearer and nearer crept the
pursuing full-back. Then, and at the same instant, the scattered breadth
of lime was gone, and a hand clutched at the canvas jacket of the
Harwell runner. Once more Joel called upon his strength and tried to
draw away, but it was no use. And with the goal line but four yards
distant, stout arms were clasped tightly about his waist.

One--two--three strides he made. The goal li